The Archived (18 page)

One person over the course of sixty-five years. “Can Librarians even serve that long?”

“There’s not exactly mandatory retirement,” he says. “Librarians choose the duration
of their term. And since, as long as we’re stationed here, we don’t age…” Roland trails
off, and I make a mental list of everyone I’ve seen in the branch. There have to be
a dozen, two dozen Librarians here at any one time. I know only a few by name.

“It’s clever,” Roland says, half to himself. “Librarians are the one element of the
Archive that isn’t—can’t be—fully recorded, kept track of. If they stayed too long
in one place, a rogue action would have drawn attention, but Librarians are in a constant
state of flux, of transfer. The staff is never together for very long. People come
and go. They move freely through the branches. It’s conceivable…”

I think of Roland, who’s been here since my induction; but the others—Lisa and Patrick
and Carmen—all came later.

“You stuck around,” I say.

“Had to keep you out of trouble.”

Roland’s Chucks bounce nervously.

“What do we do now?” I ask.

“
We
aren’t going to do anything.” Roland’s head snaps up. “
You’re
going to stay away from this case.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Mackenzie, that’s the other reason I summoned you. You’ve already taken too many
chances—”

“If you’re talking about the list of names—”

“You’re lucky I’m the one who found it.”

“It was an accident.”

“It was reckless.”

“Maybe if I’d known the paper could do that, maybe if the Archive didn’t keep everything
so damn secret—”

“Enough. I know you only want to help, but whoever is doing this is dangerous, and
they clearly don’t want to get caught. It’s imperative that you stay out of—”

“—the way?”

“No, the crosshairs.”

I think of Jackson’s knife and Hooper’s attack.
Too late.

“Please,” says Roland. “You have a lot more to lose. Let me take it from here.”

I hesitate.

“Miss Bishop…”

“How long have you been a Librarian?” I ask him.

“Too long,” he says. “Now, promise me.”

I force myself to nod, and I feel a pinch of guilt as his shoulders visibly loosen
because he believes me. He gets to his feet and heads to the door. I follow, but halfway
there, I stop.

“Maybe you should let me see Ben,” I say.

“Why’s that?”

“You know, as a cover-up. In case our rogue Librarian is watching.”

Roland almost smiles. But he still sends me home.

M
OM SAYS
there’s nothing a hot shower can’t fix, but I’ve been steaming up the bathroom for
half an hour and I’m no closer to fixing anything.

Roland sent me home with a last glance and a reminder not to trust
anyone
. Which isn’t hard when you know that someone is trying to bury the past and possibly
you with it. My mind immediately goes to Patrick, but as much as I dislike him, the
fact is he’s a model Librarian, and there are at least a dozen other Librarians in
the Archive on a given day. It could be any of them. Where do you even start?

I turn the water all the way hot and let it burn my shoulders. After Roland, I went
hunting. I wanted to clear my head. It didn’t work, and I only managed to return the
youngest two Histories, cutting my list in half for all of five minutes before three
new names flashed up.

I hunted for Owen too, but without any luck. I’m worried now that I’ve scared him
away, though
away
is a relative term in the Narrows. There can be only so many places to hide, but
I haven’t found them yet, and apparently he has. I’ve never met a History who didn’t
want to be found. And why shouldn’t he hide? His bartered day is up, and I’m the one
who means to send him back. And I will…but first I need to know what he knows, and
to get that, I need to gain his trust.

How do you gain a History’s trust?

Da would say you don’t. But as the water scalds my shoulders, I think of the sadness
in Owen’s eyes when he spoke of Regina—not of her death, when his voice went hollow,
but the time before, when he talked about the games she’d play, the stories she’d
hide throughout the building.

One time she wrote me a story and scattered it all across the Coronado, wedged in
garden cracks and under tiles, and in the mouths of statues
.…
It took me days to recover the fragments, and even then I never found the ending
.…

I snap the water off.

That’s my shot at Owen’s trust. A token. A peace offering. Something to hold on to.
My spirits start to sink. What are the odds of anything left for sixty-five years
still being here? And then I think of the Coronado, its slow, unkempt decay, and I
realize that maybe, maybe. Just maybe.

I dress quickly, glancing at the Archive paper on my bed (and grimacing at the five
names, the oldest—
18
). I used to wait days in hopes of getting a name, relished the moment of reveal.
Now I shove the slip into my pocket. A stack of books sits on a large box, Dante’s
Inferno
on top of the pile. I tuck the paperback under my arm and head out.

Dad is still at the kitchen table, on his third or fourth cup of coffee, judging by
the near-empty pot beside him. Mom is sitting beside him, making lists. She has at
least five of them in front of her, and she keeps writing and rewriting and rearranging
as if she can decode her life that way.

They both look up as I walk in.

“Where are you off to?” asks Mom. “I bought paint.”

One of the cardinal rules of lying is to never, if it can be prevented, involve someone
else in your story, because you can’t control them. Which is why I want to punch myself
when the lie that falls from my lips is, “To hang out with Wesley.”

Dad beams. Mom frowns. I cringe, turning toward the door. And then, to my amazement,
lie becomes truth when I open it to find a tall, black-clad shape blocking my way.

“Lo and behold,” says Wesley, slouching in the doorway, holding an empty coffee cup
and a brown paper bag. “I have escaped.”

“Speak of the devil,” says Dad. “Mac was just on her way—”

“Escaped what?” I ask, cutting Dad off.

“The walls of Chez Ayers, behind which I have been confined for days. Weeks. Years.”
He rests his forehead against the door frame. “I don’t even know anymore.”

“I just saw you yesterday.”

“Well. It
felt
like years. And now I come begging for coffee and bearing sweets with the intent
of rescuing you from your indentured servitude in the pit of…” Wesley’s voice trails
off as he sees my mother, arms crossed, standing behind me. “Oh, hello!”

“You must be the boy,” says Mom. I roll my eyes, but Wesley only smiles. Not crookedly,
either, but a genuine smile that should clash with his black spiked hair and dark-rimmed
eyes, but doesn’t.

“You must be the mom,” he says, sliding past me into the room. He transfers the paper
bag to his left hand and extends his right to her. “Wesley Ayers.”

Mom looks caught off guard by the smile, the open, easy way he does it. I know I am.

He doesn’t even flinch when she takes his hand.

“I can see why my daughter likes you.”

Wesley’s smile widens as his hand slips back to his side. “Do you think she’s falling
for my dashing good looks, my charm, or the fact I supply her with pastries?”

Despite herself, Mom laughs.

“’Morning, Mr. Bishop,” says Wesley.

“It’s a beautiful day,” says Dad. “You two should go. Your mom and I can handle the
painting.”

“Great!” Wes swings his arm around my shoulder, and the noise slams into me. I push
back, try to block him out, and make a mental note to punch him when we’re alone.

Mom gets us two fresh coffees and walks us to the door, watching as we go. As soon
as the door closes behind us, I knock Wesley’s arm off my shoulders and exhale at
the sudden lack of pressure. “Ass.”

He leads the way down to the lobby.

“You, Mackenzie Bishop,” he says as we hit the landing, “have been a very bad girl.”

“How so?”

He rounds the banister at the base of the staircase. “You involved me in a lie! Don’t
think I didn’t catch it.”

We pass through the study to the garden door, and he throws it open and leads me into
the dappled morning light. The rain has stopped, and as I look around, I wonder if
Regina would hide a bit of story in a place like this. The ivy is overgrown and might
keep a token safe, but I doubt a scrap of paper would survive the seasons, let alone
the years.

Wes drops onto the Faust bench and takes a cinnamon roll out of the paper bag. “Where
were you
really
going, Mac?” he asks, holding out the bag.

I drag my thoughts back to him, taking a roll as I perch on the arm of the bench.

“Oh, you know,” I say dryly, “I thought I’d lie in the sun for a few hours, maybe
read a book, savor my lazy summer.”

“Still trying to clear your list?”

“Yep.” And question Owen. And find out why a Librarian would want to cover up deaths
that are decades upon decades old. All without letting the Archive know.

“You brought the book just to throw your folks off the trail? How very thorough of
you.”

I take a bite of the cinnamon roll. “I am, in fact, a master of deceit.”

“I believe it,” Wes says, taking another bite. “So, about your list…”

“Yes?”

“I hope you don’t mind, but I took care of the History in your territory.”

I stiffen.
Owen
. Is that why I couldn’t find him this morning? Did Wesley already send him back?
I force my voice level. “What do you mean?”

“A History? You know? One of those things we’re supposed to be hunting?”

I fight to keep my shock from showing. “I told you. I didn’t. Need. Help.”

“A simple thanks will suffice, Mac. Besides, it’s not like I went looking for her.
She kind of ran into me.”

Her?
I dig the list from my pocket.
Susan Lank. 18.
is gone. A sigh of relief escapes, and I sag back against the bench.

“Luckily, I was able to use my charm,” he’s saying. “That, and she thought I was her
boyfriend. Which, I’ll admit, facilitated things a bit.” He runs his hand through
his hair. It doesn’t move.

“Thanks,” I say softly.

“It’s a hard word to say, I know. It takes practice.”

I throw the last bite of my roll at him.

“Hey,” he warns, “watch the hair.”

“How long does it take to make it stick up like that?” I ask.

“Ages,” he says, standing. “But it’s worth it.”

“Is it really?”

“I’ll have you know, Miss Bishop, that this”—he gestures from his spiked black hair
all the way down to his boots—“is absolutely vital.”

I raise an eyebrow and stretch out across the weather-pocked stone. “Let me guess,”
I say with a pout. “You just want to be seen.” I give the line a dramatic flair so
that he knows I’m teasing. “You feel invisible in your skin, and so you dress yourself
up to get a reaction.”

Wes gasps. “How did you know?” But he can’t keep the smile off his face. “Actually,
much as I love seeing my father’s tortured expression, or his trophy soon-to-be wife’s
disdain, this does serve a purpose.”

“And what purpose would that be?”

“Intimidation,” he says with a flourish. “It scares the Histories. First impressions
are very important, especially in potentially combative situations. An immediate advantage
helps me control the situation. Many of the Histories don’t come from the here and
now. And this”—again he gestures to the length of himself—“believe it or not, can
be intimidating.”

He straightens and steps toward me, into a square of sunlight. His sleeves are rolled
up, revealing leather bracelets that cut through some scars and cover others. His
brown eyes are alive and warm, and the contrast between his tawny irises and his black
hair is stark but pleasant. Beneath it all, Wesley Ayers is actually quite handsome.
My eyes pan down over his clothes, and he catches me before I can look away.

“What’s the matter, Mac?” he says. “Are you finally falling victim to my devilish
good looks? I knew it was only a matter of time.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s it.…” I say, laughing.

He leans down, rests his hand on the bench beside my shoulder.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey.”

“You okay?”

The truth sits on my tongue. I want to tell him. But Roland warned me not to trust
anyone; and though it sometimes feels like I’ve known Wes for months instead of days,
I haven’t. Besides, even if I could tell Wesley parts but not the whole, partial truths
are so much messier than whole lies.

“Of course,” I say, smiling.

“Of course,” he parrots, and pulls away. He collapses onto his own bench and tosses
an arm over his eyes to block the sun.

I look back at the study doors and think of the directories. I’ve been so focused
on the early years, I haven’t taken a close look at the current roster. I’ve been
focused on the dead, but I can’t forget about the living.

“Who else lives here?” I ask.

“Hm?”

“Here in the Coronado,” I press. I might not be able to tell Wes what’s going on,
but that doesn’t mean he can’t help. “I’ve only met you and Jill and Ms. Angelli.
Who lives here?”

“Well, there’s this new girl who just moved in on floor three. Her family’s re-opening
the café. I hear she likes to lie, and hit people.”

“Oh yeah? Well, there’s that strange goth guy, the one who’s always lurking around
Five C.”

“Strangely hot in a mysterious way, though, right?”

I roll my eyes. “Who’s the oldest person here?”

“Ah, that distinction goes to Lucian Nix up on the seventh floor.”

“How old is he?”

Wes shrugs. “Ancient.”

Just then, the study door flies open and Jill appears on the threshold.

“I thought I heard you,” she says.

“How goes it, strawberry?” asks Wes.

“Your dad has been calling us nonstop for half an hour.”

“Oh?” he says. “I must have forgotten.” The way he says it suggests he knows exactly
what time it is.

“That’s funny,” Jill says as Wes drags himself to his feet, “because your dad seems
to think you snuck out.”

“Wow,” I chime in, “you weren’t kidding when you said you escaped Chez Ayers.”

“Yeah, well. Fix it.” Jill turns and closes the study door on both of us.

“She’s charming,” I say.

“She’s like my aunt Joan, but in miniature. It’s spooky. All she needs is a cane and
a bottle of brandy.”

I follow him into the study, but stop, eyes drifting to the directories.

“Wish me luck,” he says.

“Good luck,” I say. And then, as he vanishes into the hall, “Hey, Wes?”

He reappears. “Yeah?”

“Thanks for your help.”

He smiles. “See? It’s getting easier to say.”

And with that he’s gone, and I’m left with a lead. Lucian Nix. How long has he lived
in the building? I tug down the most recent directory, flipping through until I reach
the seventh floor.

7E. Lucian Nix.

I pull down the next directory.

7E. Lucian Nix.

And the next.

7E. Lucian Nix.

All the way back, past the missing files, to the very first year of the first blue
book. 1950.

He’s been here all along.

I press my ear against the door of 7E.

Nothing. I knock. Nothing. I knock again, and I’m about to tug my ring off and listen
for the sounds of any living thing when, finally, someone knocks back. There is a
kind of scuffle on the other side of the door, joined by muttered cursing, and moments
later the door swings open and collides with the metal side of a wheelchair. More
cursing, and then the chair retreats enough so that the door can fully open. The man
in the chair is, as Wesley put it, ancient. His hair is shockingly white, his milky
eyes resting somewhere to my left. A thin stream of smoke drifts up from his mouth,
where a narrow cigarette hangs, mostly spent. A scarf coils around his neck, and his
clawlike fingers pluck at the fringe on the end.

“What are you staring at?” he asks. The question catches me off guard, since he’s
clearly blind. “You aren’t saying anything,” he adds, “so you must be staring.”

“Mr. Nix?” I ask. “My name is Mackenzie Bishop.”

“Are you a kiss-a-gram? Because I told Betty I didn’t need girls being paid to come
see me. Rather have no girls at all than that—”

I’m not entirely sure what a kiss-a-gram is. “I’m not a kiss—”